Unthwei from Volksbaggage by The Illustrated

My rifle pals laughed behind their hands last night
to the cast of my moth lamps, at the catch trapped inside
while those insect phoenixes did a zombie shuffle-slide
a quake trick after they die, in lieu of an airborne glide

those zap-flashed fake-eyes on the wings,
well they shake like they've been shook awake
But when my rifle pals aren't looking my way,
I glow with shame, but nurse a pride all the same

But I can't speak for my friends
and I can't speak for my friends

And my collection, well it gains a laugh and attention
unlike any other trapper's good haul that could merit mention
(and a trapper is still a kind of hunter, by intention,
with all his pointed predilections and trap inventions),

It hangs propped up in this humid porch-side void
And they catch second hell the way they're deployed
but these moths are demon eyed things, see those wings?
Who could prove, or could be moved to say those eyes aint hell rings?

But I can't speak for my friends...
and I can't speak my friends...

Well I've got some patch of pride in my triumphant catch,
better to think of that while sleepless on my back
Those moths docked; the zap dimmed, and they dropped.
We laugh, and after our day's real haul, its no great shock

'Cause today, we killed enemy combatants instead.
we killed actual men actually dead; first time and finally dead.
And there aint doubt of demonhood with them;
No shuffle or zap of zombie dance, the'yre dead and just dead;

I can't speak for my friends
but I can't say I didn't prefer the moth-lamps and the death's heads.
But I can't speak for my friends...
Nor can I speak for the dead...

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